2237-06-10 - Delivering On A Bet

Socks and Jigger follow up on their bet made during Operation Mission Mercy.

Date: 2237-06-10

Location: Crew Lounge, Cutter //Vanguard//

Related Scenes: None

Plot: None

Scene Number: 1116

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The day after their first battle over Picon, things are quiet on the ship. Most of the marines are on-planet dealing with what should be a simple supply drop. There's still a handful of people in the crew lounge though, amongst them is Alain, who walks in with two buckets. "Anyone seen Socks?" he calls out.

Salvae's relaxing on the couch. It has a nice view of outter space, the Picon sun, thanks to the polarization of the windows, isn't blinding, but provides a nice ambiant light to the lounge. The pilot is working on his latest knitting project, and he looks up as he hears his name being called out. Oh crap.. It's Jigger, and he's got two buckets! He knows what's coming, and steels himself, setting the needles and yarn aside. "Jigger! How are ya now? Whatcha got there, gettin ready to go milk the cows?"

Alain diverts his path as one of the other pilots jerks a thumb towards where Salvae is lounging on the couch. Within each of the buckets are a can of gravy. Jigger sets them on the table in front of the couch with a grin of something between relish and regret. Still, he's not one to back down from manning up on a lost bet. "Time for both of us to pay up, Socks. We lost, fair and square, to Pockets."

Salvae winces as he sees the two cans being stacked up, "Oh lords, it's time to pay the piper, eh?" the pilot rubs his hands together and leans forward. He peers out, looking for Pockets. "Pockets ain't got the stomach for this?" he wonders, getting up from the couch, he walks over, her mouth already watering in anticipation of the ordeal.

"Searched the ship top to bottom for her while I was hunting for you," Jigger says. He might be lying, but who can tell? He looks earnest enough, but maybe he wants to minimize the awkwardness somewhat. Still, a handful of other pilots are starting to gather around. He taps the top of the can nearest him.

Salvae swallows, stomach already churning at the thought of chugging all that gods damned salt at once. He reaches down and picks up one of the cans, giving it a look over, kind of regretting daydrinking that other time and convincing Jigger to chug one, and now they are, it's a THING. "Alright," he says, as the witnesses gather up. There's no backing down now. He picks up a can opener, and punctures the bottom with the tin tilted so it doesn't spill. "You ready?"

Jigger picks up his own can, piercing it with the can opener. "Ready when you are, Socks," he says, full of bravado. Of course, that doesn't mean he's not sweating a little in anticipation. After all, he's done this before, and he knows exactly just how awful it is. He lifts his can up, side-eyeing Socks as he does.

Socks matches Jigger's movements, not willing to be the one to back down and welch on a bet. He lifts it up, the can opener in position to pierce the top of the tin. His stomach tightens, his palms sweat. He can fly headfirst into angry raiders no problem, but... But somehow it's chugging a can of gravy in front of his peers that has him all on nerves. A few steadying breaths and the pilot nods his head, he closes his eyes and pierces the top of the tin. OH Lords of Kobol! The salt! He opens his eyes as they water, and sees the cooking instructions: Dilute 4:1. This is how it all ends for him, dead on the deck of the crew lounge, an half chugged tin of gravey in his hand. He doubles his resolve and sucks the thick liquid from the tin, gagging and coughing as he shotguns the gravey.

Salvae rolls Composure: Good Success (7 7 6 4 4 1)
Alain rolls Composure: Success (7 5 5 4 3 2 2)

The second Jigger sees the other pilot lift his tin, the Gemenon does the same. His eyes are closed, the first couple of swallows not that bad. But it continues. There's a couple of coughs, his stomach churning in rebellion, and memory, of the first time he put his body through this. He's not looking good, swaying, but he's chugging through the can.

Salvae finishes his tin without throwing up on himself, but he looks like an eight year old whos dad caught him sipping the whiskey and had to have a whole glass to teach him better. He slams the greasy can onto the table and braces, his mouth streaming down his chin as he watches Jigger's throat work on the gravy. He just about says something, but all that escapes is a thick, bubbly belch. one thing's for sure, Socks isn't going to be having any poutine for a long while..

Despite his visibly sweating and shaking reaction, Jigger manages a thumbs up. He's totally fine, really. Except for the fact that he doesn't trust himself to speak. The other witnesses around them are groaning, sounding disappointed, a few starting to exchange money as it seems like neither of the pilots is going to make use of the bucket.

Alain rolls Composure: Great Success (8 8 7 6 6 5 4)
Salvae rolls Composure: Success (8 4 3 3 2 1)

The bubbly burp seems to have started something, but through Salvae's teary eyes, he can see that Jigger's going to keep it down--good thing, too, Salvae's looking pretty green, the longer he stands there. He braces himself on the edge of the table, dribbling down over the bucket, trying to breathe through his mouth to avoid the gross smell that's making him so miserable. Swallowing, he nods his head, blinking away some of the tears from his latest gag. As cubits are exchanged back and forth, it seems they've lasted as long as they really have to, and the pilot straightens up, still looking on the edge of disaster, he clutches his bucket close to his chest. "This... This was good.." he lies. "We should do this again sometime." Frack that.

As the moments pass, despite his stomach's protestations, Jigger seems like he's going to keep it all in. Maybe his bravado does count for something. A burp soon escapes him, and though he sways, nothing follows it. Finally, the witnesses start to disperse, grumbling. "Yeah... totally," he replies, with as much gusto as he can muster. No. Frakking. Way. "Next time... let's... smoke Pockets, eh?"

Salvae nods his head, his stomach churning. Uh-oh.. The head's on this deck, right? "Frakkin Pockets and her vipers full of engines," he complains, shuffling off towards the hatch. The pilot isn't going to win this battle, but hopefully he can make it to the head before he spills in the passageways!

Salvae rolls Composure: Success (7 7 5 5 5 3)
Alain rolls Composure: Good Success (8 8 6 5 5 4 2)

That huff might be a laugh from Jigger, but it's an odd sound, because he has to swallow sharply halfway through. "Show's over," he says, waving to those present, before he takes his buckets. Undoubtedly, his not-so-casual stroll is going to take him almost directly to the head after his fellow pilot. That gravy isn't going to stay down forever.


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